


when our eyes meet (i feel i love you)

by 3minswriting



Category: NU'EST
Genre: Alternate Universe, Chapter 2 is NSFW, Fluff, M/M, bottom dongho, top!Aron
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-11-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:54:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24569584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/3minswriting/pseuds/3minswriting
Summary: Every night he sits in his regular seat at the end of the bar, with his regular drink and waits for the show to start.
Relationships: Kang Dongho | Baekho/Aaron Kwak | Aron
Comments: 17
Kudos: 33





	1. one

**Author's Note:**

> cant get out of my slump but idk i tried.
> 
> this is for the baekronists. all 5 of us lol.

Every night he sits in his regular seat at the end of the bar, with his regular drink (whiskey, no ice, and its gotten to the point that he just has to walk in and the bartender knows what to give him but he never has to worry about the seat because it's not the best in the house, and the house is usually pretty empty), and waits for the show to start.

  
  


Aron doesn't mind the waiting music, it's soothing after a long day. The saxophonist onstage keeps the mood mellow and Aron taps his heel to the changing rhythm as he drinks. It's tempting to check his phone to keep an eye on the time but he resists. The work emails and messages could wait.

  
  


The applause is scattered, barely more than a faint murmur between the ten patrons when the musician onstage takes his leave and another takes his place. Aron sits up straighter on his stool, not the only eyes in the room that light up when following the newcomer taking his seat at the piano.

  
  


There isn't much ceremony before the music begins - the pianist bows slightly to the instrument in front of him, then to the small crowd before placing his fingers over the keys. Smooth chords fill the air with warmth like the comfortable buzz of alcohol heating Aron's cheeks. He nods his head to beat - not of the music, created so beautifully by the pianist with the dark brown eyes, but the drum that keeps time and memory in his chest. He's the only one who claps at the end of the song and is rewarded with the pianist looking his way once the server slips onstage to place a glass of cider for him. Aron raises his glass to mime a 'cheers' and the pianist tries to hide a grin, eyes fluttering back to the keys in front of him.

  
  


The set never lasts long enough, in Aron's opinion. The pianist only plays for twenty minutes before he's replaced by a guitarist with dark hair and a calm face. But for those twenty minutes Aron is transported to a place far away from his own worries. Through slender fingers and cute thumbs, the pianist's music massages the creases in Aron's brow, runs fingers through his golden hair, whispers sweet nothings in his ear. The same words Aron couldn't wait to repeat against the lips of his husband tonight.

  
  


It's even less time until the pianist joins him, drink in hand. He looks to Aron like the embodiment of this place – carelessly charming, a peek of tattooed pectorals glimpsed between the unbuttoned vee of his black shirt kept decent by the high waist of his wide-leg trousers.

"I thought the meeting was gonna run late." He greets, frowning.

“It did.” Aron stands up, slipping an arm around his waist to guide him to take his seat. Obediently, the pianist follows his direction and sits, placing his glass next to Aron’s on the counter before crossing his legs.

“But you’re here.”

“I am.” Aron agrees, leaning in for a kiss.

He’s met with a soft cheek instead of pouting lips as the pianist turns away.

“You mean you skipped out again?”

“When I said I’d support your dreams babe, I didn’t just mean financially.” Aron says, ducking to catch the other’s eye. Hopefully tease a grin from him to match the cheeky one he wears. “Couldn’t miss out on the show. You know I love hearing you play.”

“You hear me practice at home all the time.”

“It’s not the same, Dongho.” Aron insists. He trails a fingertip through the slit of parted cloth. “You definitely don’t dress like this when you’re practicing.”

“’Cause my hands would be too busy slapping yours away.” Dongho pushes the finger caressing his sternum down lower as he leans closer, tilting up his chin to offer his lips for a kiss.

Aron doesn’t wait for further invitation – he takes what he’s given, giving back just as much as Dongho. The taste of sweet cider coats Aron’s mouth when they part, and from Dongho’s little grimace he can tell he didn’t enjoy the whiff of whiskey he’d gotten as part of the exchange. The expression is too endearing no matter how many times he’s seen it, and he’s seen it a lot; his husband’s always been expressive beyond the music he makes.

“No good?”

Dongho’s grimace melts away into a smile, licking his bottom lip as if to savour the taste. “Nah, it’s always good.”

“Could say the same about you babe.” Aron tickles under Dongho’s chin. “Good show tonight.”

“To the same ten people.” Scoffing, Dongho turns in his seat to face the bar and Aron takes up the empty seat beside him, resting against his shoulder.

“You’ll get there,” when Dongho doesn’t respond except to take a little sip of his drink, Aron adds a dramatic sigh, “and when you do, you’re gonna get so big and famous that you’re gonna forget all about me, touring all around the country, and the love letters you used to sing are gonna be replaced by divorce papers and I’ll have to start up my own youtube channel confessions so I can tell you and the world, ‘I knew him, you know, Kang Dongho, love of my life who’s too busy producing with a huge record label-“

“You’re so full of shit.” Dongho chuckles, putting down his glass and grabs Aron’s hand, linking their fingers together. His gaze stays low but at least he’s smiling again. “You hate being recorded.”

“For you, I’d do it.” Aron winks, catching Dongho’s gaze. His smile fades as he looks into his husband’s eyes. Softly, under the background music and the dim lights he murmurs, “I’d do anything.”

“I know.” Dongho steals a quick peck from Aron’s lips. “I know. Come on, let’s go home.”

“After one drink? I didn’t know you were such an easy date.” Aron pretends to be surprised as he stands, arm securing around Dongho’s waist while his husband rolls his eyes.

“Say it louder, maybe one of the other regulars will buy me a drink next time.”

“Nope, you’re mine babe. All these sorry losers know it, too.” Aron cast a glance at the rest of the regulars, eyeing a few who looked away quickly.

“Don’t bully my fans, Aron-ah.”

“But I’m your biggest fan. I’m the head fan, it’s my right!”

Dongho purses his lips but it doesn’t protect them from being kissed, Aron makes sure of it. He presses Dongho gently against the doorframe leading out to the rear exit, kissing until their bodies tingle with more anticipation than alcohol.

One day, Aron knows they won’t have nights like this. Dongho will make it big, and their double bed will be half empty when touring keeps him away, where other fans will be screaming Dongho’s name in packed halls while his husband glows joyously under bright stage lights.

So Aron enjoys the here and now, of their double bed filled with tangled limbs and quiet moans, where the only fan with Dongho’s name on their lips is him.


	2. two (NSFW)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every night he comes home from work and the lights aren't on, no matter the hour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for you, who waited paitently and respectfully.
> 
> and ofc to baekho's jazz arrangement of Feels; recommend listening to it while reading for ~mood~

-

The lights inside the house aren't on when he walks up the driveway. 

It's past eleven, edging towards midnight on a Tuesday, and somewhere under a layer of thick clouds and gentle rain, Aron thinks as he looks up to the sky, there is some light source that should be glowing steadily. The moon, maybe, or the stars. They always shine at this hour.

Not at home.

Not anymore.

Patent leather shoes crush wet gravel in slow, exhausted steps. Rainwater nips the seams of his navy silk blend trousers, irregular marks chewing dark stains that match the powdering flecks on his jacket shoulders. 

The rain is so soft, cool in the autumn wind that swirls around the bottom of the hill. 

Aron stands still. Palm weighted by dangling keys that unlock an empty house. The other hand holds a briefcase full of reports and a laptop overrun by emails marked urgent-

and he loves them, those little red exclamation marks demanding his whole attention because they remind him of a feeling he's missed for far too long.

It takes ten minutes to make the trek to the front door. Unlike the angry punctuation marks, the dark house offers no urgency so neither do Aron's feet. The pad of his thumb runs along the jagged ridges of keys, as though contemplating their pattern.

It is quiet. Somewhere down the road, a dog barks at the wind. Leaves whisper to the rain, their reddening faces glossy with wetness. Aron pauses as he slides the keys into the lock. Wonders how much longer the trees will last until they release their hoard of amber and gold to the wind; it must be soon. Even the strongest deciduous plants, he concedes as he twists the key, know that they cannot retain their stunning treasures forever. They have to release them to the wind, to the rest of the world, even if the world won't treasure them as much as they deserve. 

Aron shakes his head. 

Hold on a little longer, he thinks. Commands. As if the seasons cared for a single corporate analyst wandering into an empty house on a slanted hill close to midnight with so much more work left to do.

"I'm home..." 

Habit, so hard to break. It slots in neatly with the toss of keys, kicking off of shoes, ditching his briefcase in the dining room and loosening the tight windsor knot of his necktie as he wanders through to flick on lights, put on some music. Something mellow, a piano track to match the whisky he needs to warm up from the long day and the longer night.

Aron sighs.

Absently thumbs on his phone to sync up a song as he pads through to the living room.

Something familiar immediately plays; delicate, soft, sombre. Dances through the hallways like an old married couple slowly rotating, surrounded by candlelight and each other's arms. 

Aron doesn't know a lot about music - he always left that to his husband - but he knows what he likes. 

He likes this track.

It's soothing, washes down his tired bones like the whisky that tickles his dry throat and chases away his wet eyes. Aron licks his bottom lip, tasting the tune and the alcohol as he wanders through the room in the dark. His free hand seeks the wall, finds the switch.

Aron pauses. 

The piano is so quiet. Chords that sound almost like familiar conversation and Aron finds himself beginning to listen for the words.

He would have remembered if he'd heard this before.

And he would have remembered if he'd left the studio light on. 

Aron leaves the lightswitch but carries his drink with him. Habit keeps him safe. He doesn't need light to navigate through the house, darting and weaving urgently between furniture and corners - but there it is-

light.

Gold, flickering light pulsing through the back of the house and guiding him home.

Aron stops in the middle of the hallway. Amber liquid trembles in a crystal glass. The ripples catch the beat of his heart, which he swallows back down his throat. Edges silently towards the ajar studio door at the end of the hall. 

The pianist sits at his stool of faded red velvet. Two dozen candles merrily burn in an amphitheatre around the upright piano, flames swaying in ardent applause. Aron joins them, blends easily into the crowd, like always. His eyes burn, he flickers. 

And the music plays under careful presses of talented fingers, filling the whole house and the empty cavity between Aron's lungs.

The chords that fade _are_ a familiar conversation, a greeting he hasn’t heard for far too long. Arons recognises it as he finally enters the room in a slow swagger, lowball glass tapping against his outer thigh when he leans against the upright. 

"Hey babe, do you take requests?" Aron takes a sip of his whisky but his grinning teeth clack against the rim.

"Only got time for one," The pianist looks up at him briefly under a curtain of wavy black hair and dark lashes, "and it won't come free."

Aron shakes his head, "Surely a bigshot musician can spare a single song for a poor, tired old office worker?"

A quiet scoff of laughter is accompanied by a E flat 7 chord. "`Fraid not. This isn't a charity gig."

"Oh?" Aron's eyes follow familiar lines- damp ringlets smelling of citrus and suede, round cheeks, slim jaw, a peek of tanned collarbones, all the way to the tips of short thumbs peeking free from lavender wool sleeves on the D flat and E keys. He places his glass atop the upright before leaning down. "And what kind of gig is this, Dongho-ah?"

"Hmm.." Dongho ends the piece with a B major chord and a cheeky smirk as he lifts his gaze. "I was thinking more like a private function. You know?"

Aron nods, curled index finger catching under the hollow of his husband's upturned chin, "Mm, I like that. Sounds perfect for an anniversary." 

"I thought so too." Dongho mutters against Aron's mouth.

It's sweet, their kisses, each tinged with the bitterness of extreme longing, heated with the comfort of devotion, and it tastes nothing like the ciders on Dongho's tongue that Aron used to buy for him at the old jazz club. Nor does Dongho feel like the same man even when their fingers interlock and Aron admires his pursed lips farwelling candlelight in short puffs of air.

But in the darkness, Dongho takes the lead through to their house and he does so without pause or hesitation, navigating the sharp corners and twisting bannister until he reaches their bedroom.

"What's the matter, lost?" Aron teases easily, because without the light he knows Dongho can't see he's no longer smiling.

"No." The tired fingers heating his own give a gentle squeeze. Without the light, Aron feels more than sees Dongho's gaze on him. It's warm, just like his chuckle, like the kiss that tangles Aron's breath in his throat and leaves him shaking in his argyle socks when they part. "I'm right where I wanna be." 

A careful tug at Aron's throat urges him forward and he follows the leash of his tie when Dongho pulls. 

"So am I," Aron murmurs when they fall against the crisp sheets and each other. 

When Dongho's big dreams had started coming true three years ago - from the dingy bar to the glittering stages - so did Aron's.

And his biggest fears, too.

One lonely night turned into two, into four, into twelve, into months. Video calls and re-watching live streamed concerts couldn't replace this - the tangible weight of Dongho's straining muscles underneath him and wrapped around him, holding Aron close, breathing his husband's name in quiet ecstasy. The house is filled with noise and music after months of silence, and Aron drowns in it. Drinks it all in like so much whisky that he's become flushed and lightheaded. _"Babe, babe god I missed you-"_ He runs his palms over Dongho's sweaty thighs and noses kisses against his whimpering throat, taking his time to build up a careful, easy rhythm.

A single bar of light from the streetlamp creeps through the room and stamps itself over the heave of Dongho's glistening chest. Illuminates the black ink of his constellation tattoo and the pink welts imprinted by Aron's lips around his hardened nipples. Beneath him, Aron feels as Dongho shivers and bucks, whole body shaking as if being filled by his husband's love is all it was made for, and for that Aron is glad, because as he fucks slowly into Dongho's clenching heat and their tongues dance, he knows that this is all he was made for.

To be here, with his darling, hands intertwined as amber eyes peek at him and Dongho's golden voice cries for more, to be touched, to be loved and adored. Aron kisses his cheek, "I'm here babe, right here."

"Aron, A-Aron-ah-" Dongho lifts his hips, crosses his ankles and pulls Aron in tighter. Refuses to let go, refuses to insist on a different tempo even though Aron can feel Dongho's hard cock straining, begging for more touch than the friction of their bellies. He follows Aron's thrusts, entrance unbelievably tight even as excessive lubricant stains the part of his asscheeks and darkens the tousled sheets beneath them. It's warm, and it feels so _good_. There's the rain outside and the cold wind, but here, at home, Aron is hot; his body is slowly burning into embers as Dongho reaches for him.

"I-" A hand to his cheek and a delicious squeeze of muscles brings Aron too close too suddenly, and he stills.

"What-" Aron frowns from the effort, restraint hanging by a single thread and if he looks at his husband he knows that Dongho's smile will unravel him.

Like it always did, from the day they met.

"-missed you, hyung, so much." Dongho's clawed fingertips rake gently over Aron's shoulderblades, down his spine. Powerful thighs coax him in deeper, as if Aron's not already bottomed out inside him, but it's the sweetness in his voice that persuades Aron to relax and open his eyes. 

He wants to say it again and again. _I miss you, I love you, Welcome back home_ , kiss it into Dongho's skin until it is as permanent as the ink decorating his pectoral and the matching rings they wear. Instead Aron shifts his hips, eases his cock out and stretches Dongho's twitching entrance as he slides back in. Angles his strokes to make his husband tremble like crimson leaves dangling from swaying trees outside. Dongho's bottom lip is released from his teeth as Aron kisses him deeply, all wet and soft and wonders how long this will last.

"Aron-ah-"

"Dongho.." 

Their voices mingle like rain and wind. Aron's stomach tenses and each thrust, each flutter of Dongho's eyes and lips in his direction has him shaking, needing for this to last one second more, just hold on a little longer. He wants to remember this as clearly as their wedding day, as his proposal, as Dongho's ‘yes’ - and Dongho's _yes_ es now are chanted against his shoulder, Aron's against Dongho's forehead, lips, until he knows that he can't hold off any longer. 

"Babe-"

Dongho's back arches off the bed and he suddenly wraps Aron up in the tightest hold. The heat is stifling, perfect, and Aron groans as molten pleasure melts his spine, fucking desparately into Dongho's wanting embrace. He feels Dongho spasming, thrashing, weak under Aron's touch. White coats his fist at the same time as more trickles between Dongho's thighs, sticky as sap and gluing their exhausted bodies together. 

The heavy sobs that shook the bed eventually slow to satisfied sighs. Dongho winces as Aron pulls out. Carefully, Aron brushes away a stray curl of hair from his husband's forehead, shuts his eyes when Dongho shifts to nuzzle the tip of his nose. He breathes in, memorises the husky " _I love you s'much_ " drizzling into his ear, the elegant curve of Dongho's wide hip under his smooth palm.

Aron opens his eyes.

Dongho is staring at him, eyelids heavy with sleep. The bar of light from the window hasn't shifted; it straps them both down by the shoulders, pressing them into the bed. Though neither make motions to leave. 

"Aron-ah..."

"Yeah?" Aron wraps his arm around Dongho's waist, loves how his husband wriggles closer, wishes it could be like this every night. The tour continues ( _had it ever stopped?_ Aron wonders, and knows it didn't, hasn't, there's twelve more days of it left across Asia) and those niggling red exclamation marks he hates want to demand the attention that only the man in his heart deserves. 

"Y'got any meetings-," A yawn cuts off Dongho's words and he looks so soft, relaxed among their sheets that Aron forgets to breathe, "-tm'rrow?"

_Three._ The number is at the tip of Aron's tongue. It's on his fingertips when he traces over Dongho's hip. A bead of sweat catches on his nail, drips onto the inside of a golden thigh. If he weren’t so drained, Aron would have lapped it up, but they both have work tomorrow and it’s late, too late for a second round no matter how much he wishes-

"None." He plucks the word free, sends it sailing into the cooling air. It dances lightly between them, fluttering as though a fallen leaf. "You?"

"Just one." Heat flares at Aron's collarbone where Dongho whispers even as his stomach sinks. He keeps his breathing relaxed somehow. Strokes along Dongho's skin, collects the slickness of his sweat under the pads of his fingers.

"Oh." 

Dongho kisses his chin before nestling underneath it. "How's y'ten'o-clock looking?" 

"It's-" Aron laughs, an updraft swelling in his throat, the suddenness stinging his eyes. The house fills with the sound, with air. He can breathe. He holds his husband closer. "-it's good. I can make it."

"Ten, then." Dongho's voice is muffled. 

"Another private concert?" He can't help it, he kisses the top of Dongho's curls - and pleasure prickles his nerves when he feels Dongho is kissing his chest at the same time, following his rhythm instead of marching to his own like he does when onstage. 

"Mm, m'number one fan." 

"I'll get flowers."

"Just a drink’s...." 

As Aron shifts closer, kisses him once more before settling to follow Dongho into the land of dreams, which looks a lot like his waking reality right now, he murmurs, 

"Anything. Anything for you."

-

**Author's Note:**

> comments/kudos are really appreciated, tysm for reading!


End file.
